


Speak to No Man

by troublemakersmark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don't Try This At Home, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, Mark of Cain, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, bad stuff everywhere, depressed!Dean, moc!dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troublemakersmark/pseuds/troublemakersmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From nearly losing Sam to the trials, to lying through his teeth to keep his brother alive, to being cast out and alone, to accepting the Mark of Cain, to finding a shaky truce, Dean's in a bad way - and he knows it, God, he knows. </p><p>And in a kill-or-be-killed world, he's trying to make his choices wisely. But hes never been a wise man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drop in the Bucket

**Author's Note:**

> I'm terrified to post this, but I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own, feel free to point them out.
> 
> Good luck, stranger.

**Drop in the Bucket**

Chapter Track: Gospel Whiskey Runners - Muddy Waters

 

 

There’s a bottle of whiskey in his bag. 

There are two more in the false-bottomed bottom drawer of his desk.

There are pills labeled ‘Effective’ and ‘Efficient’ and ‘Extreme Circumstances Only’ hidden in a box beside the first aid kit in his cabinet of a closet.

He keeps two joints, rolled painstakingly tight in thin pages ripped from a bible, hidden in each of the double-barrels of the sawed-off above his headboard. The first sawed-off he ever made, unstable and damaged and unusable, in the place of honor – another relic, another symbol, another reminder hanging above his head.

He has a small stash of miscellaneous paraphernalia hidden in the trunk of the Impala, in the space between the false bottom and the left taillight.

They were supposed to remain untouched, in case of emergency only, painful pieces of nostalgia, but he’s already made the first move.

Tomorrow, he’ll add a plastic pint under his pillow, and the hip flask he keeps tucked in his boot reserved for holy water will now be a holy water and whiskey cocktail – dual purposed.

His lip twitching, pulling back against his teeth momentarily before falling to the frown that has become his neutral, he dares anyone and everyone to tell him that he can’t prepare, can’t think ahead, can’t ‘plan for the future’. He knows where he’s going. In the end, it’ll be the very bottom of the pit; right now, it’ll be the very bottom of the bottle.

The mark on his arm, his newest scar, his newest brand, begins to heat beneath his skin; a tremble that begins as a twitch in his thumb spreads to take his hand, his wrist, his arm; a screeching, a squeal, a dogs whine quickly builds, filling the space behind his eyes, at the base of his skull, in the hollow of his throat.

He blinks his way through it, clenches his fist, shakes his head to clear away the more pervading than tinnitus ringing in his ears. There’s no point in contemplating what he already knows, and there’s no point in surveying what he has. It’s not a kingdom; it’s an escape.

He doesn’t bother to shut his door behind him as he steps into his room, finished hovering in his own doorway; Sam is out. _Out-_ out. Won’t be back for a few days kind of out. _Hasn’t_ been home in a few days. He reaches for the bottle in his bag first, and sets it beside the empty, though used and unwashed, coffee cup sitting beside the closed laptop on his desk. There’s no one to be polite for, no one to convince that he’s handling this – everything -- _responsibly_ , no one to lie to about –

The box in his closet is dust covered and battered, but it rattles satisfyingly when he fumbles to pull it down from the shelf, all the little stolen pills with their hard to pronounce names in ugly-hunter-orange plastic and childproof bottles, bearing names that aren’t his. ‘Effective’ and ‘Efficient’ are easy enough to pick out from the rest, and he hastily replaces the box on its shelf as he eyes how many of the innocent white little caplets are left in each – more than enough for tonight. More than enough to last, unless he decides to do something stupid.

He steps back to his desk, uncapping the bottles and digging out a single pill from each – hesitating before digging out another from ‘Efficient’ and replacing their tops. He sets the bottles in his top drawer; hidden from immediate sight but _there_ ; just in case; just because; as he carefully sets the pills onto the desk. He hasn’t done this in years – exactly twice after Purgatory, a few times after Hell, a handful of times before that. It’s no ‘In Case of Emergency Only’ situation, but it’s definitely a ‘Sobriety Not Recommended’ situation. He takes the coffee cup with its dried dregs still ringing the bottom and begins crushing those three innocent enough little pills - slowly, methodically, push-and-twist - between the desk and its base, until there’s nothing but clumpy white powder left of them. He carefully brushes off the underside of the cup, uses his pinky to corral what’s on the desk into a pile and then off the edge of the desk into the waiting mouth of the mug, licks his finger clean as he untwists the cap off his whiskey. The chalk of the pills sticks to the back of his throat and the underside of his tongue, but he breathes through his nose for a moment, blanks his mind, muffles his own voice, and takes a swift mouthful of liquor. The burn washes the film from his tongue, tears through his throat, and for a second he breathes fire, gratefully warm and the relief immediately calming. But it’s momentary and superficial, so he splashes a finger of whiskey into his mug and with hasty, jerky movements swirls the dissolving powder, just barely, just enough, before tipping everything down the hatch.

The film coats his tongue again, so he takes another gulp from the bottle and hisses through his teeth, biting at his bottom lip. And for the next fifteen minutes, he repeats the process, until the ringing in his ears finally smothers itself to white noise, until his vision begins to fuzz and blur and soften the brick of the wall he’s been staring at, until his lip is raw and his teeth are pulling thin strips of copper and iron tainted skin away with them. He checks the bottle clenched in his fingers, breaking the rhythm he’s built in its journey between his mouth and the edge of the desk, and finds that it’s already nearly half empty. He hadn’t tasted any of it, only drowned his senses in the burn, but now he can feel the clench in his belly and the heat pooling in his core and the fuzz of his tongue.

He tries to raise a hand to rub at the bridge of his nose, at the itch starting in his eyes, but his fingers are heavy and fumble lazily. He blinks at them confusedly – this is progressing much quicker than it used to, as far as he can remember, though he doesn’t try very hard to. Taking stock of his own body, he realizes that the constant ache in his feet has soothed, that the ever present tension along his spine has released, that his shoulders feel loose and his arms heavy, that his ears feel warm, and his face relaxed, that his skin itches, feels both too loose and too tight around him, that his right arm, his mark, has begun to burn again, smolders straight from his bones, warms through to his fingertips, but it is easy to ignore and just adds to the weight pulling him down; it’s as though every piece of him has become triply susceptible to gravity, every muscle and molecule being pulled towards the ground, and it takes much more focus than typically necessary to ensure that his tongue is fit comfortably in his mouth, that his jaw doesn’t hang open. As if on cue he stumbles, though he doesn’t recall attempting to move or any reason for his knees to buckle, and he has to throw his arm out to catch himself against the back of his desk chair heavily.

Breathing through his nose he tries to draw in a deep breath, wills his chest to expand, for oxygen to fill him, but instead his lungs only stutter and hitch, cough out an exhale. He tries again, and though it ekes and protests, he manages to swallow and gulp enough to steady the swaying of walls around him. His legs are still unsteady, though, and he clumsily falls to his ass on the floor, forgoing any attempt at grace. The edges of the mattress behind him are both insistently prodding and comfortingly giving, as he tips his head back and fumbles to raise the bottle to his mouth again, knocks his knuckles against his nose. The edges around his thoughts are beginning to blur, just as every other sensation is, and he forces himself to swallow heavily, once to clean his palate, again to calm the sudden angry boil in his gut. But it doesn’t quiet, and his lungs fill with static. It takes every fuzzy, flickering, straining, escaping bit of focus to keep from wheezing his lungs dry and instead suck in steadying, small, thin gasps of cool air for as long as he possibly can, no matter which part of him protests.

He does not know when he loses that focus, when any focus at all leaves him, when his eyes fell closed, and his mind, his thoughts, his head, his body, goes still and calm, floats through space unaware. He only notices their absence upon their return, to a muted buzz of vibration from his pocket like an unsteady heartbeat. His lips are sticky, catching against each other as he ensures his jaw still works, his tongue grates against his teeth and cheeks, his lungs complain at their sudden call to action, forcing a rushed and heavy hack, groan, curse out of him. As he blinks first one eye open and then the other, clears the crust from his lashes, the blur from his vision, he realizes that the beat from his pocket – his phone – has silenced, and that, surprisingly, though his head feels heavy and slow, it is clear of both pain and thought.

Assessing the situation, he finds that he has a crick in his neck from sitting with his chin against his chest for the not-yet-known amount of time he’s been here, his legs are still attached to his body, his boots are entirely uncomfortable, his clothes smell old and wrinkled and unwashed, his left arm is mildly numb and just now starting to tingle back into sensation, and his right hand is still clenched tight and stiff around the neck of the whiskey bottle, more empty than he remembers it was but not a drop spilt, and the skin around his brand feels like an open wound, vulnerable and raw, pulsing with his heartbeat. He sniffs thickly, and raises the bottle to take a mouthful, swirling the day-old and dried spit and fuzz and cotton away and down his throat.

In the meantime, his pocket begins its buzzing again, and he coughs the burn from his lungs quickly, licks the last remaining drops from his lips, and sets his bottle aside with too much force than really necessary but with no strength to do otherwise. He pries the phone from his pocket with shaking hands and too-thick fingers, groaning to his empty room as the bright name across the screen finally registers into recognition. He swipes the screen and presses clumsily at the green dot to answer the call he really would have rather ignored, but Sam would probably just call again, anyways; he wasn’t sure what Sam would do if he’d ended up ignoring that call, too, not with the way they’ve been lately, ‘Business Only’.

“Hey.” His voice comes out hoarser than he expected it to be, and he screws his eyes shut, rubbing at his brow line and over the bridge of his nose.

“Dean? It’s past noon – were you sleeping? Why the hell are you sleeping?”

One at a time Sam, please. “Yeah.” His voice still croaks, and his throat feels tight, closed up, choked off, so he clears it instead of snapping the excuses and reasons building under his tongue. “What’d’ya got?”

The two second pause and burst of crackling static into his ear tells him that Sam isn’t satisfied – with him or his answer or his actions; a reoccurring theme. But Sam jumps right over the words, all the same. “Nothing. Open and shut over here. I’m gonna start heading back tomorrow, should be there the day after.”

He grunts an affirmative, he hopes, sounding huff, and tries to lick his lips again but his tongue twists against his teeth.

“So yeah. That’s it. I’ll see you when I get there, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Goddamnit, he can’t help the strain in his voice. “Be safe, Sam.” He wants to say more, but that’s all Sam will allow him. Wants to say, ‘drive careful’, ‘can’t wait’, ‘I’ll be here’, but knows that Sam doesn’t want to hear any of it, so tethers it down.

“Yeah. I will. Bye.”

The phone beeps, call ended, and he throws it over his shoulder onto his unused, hardly ever used lately, bed. ‘Fuck’, he hisses into his empty room, and rubs his palms against his eyes, pushing the light away from them and relishing in the silence it leaves, just for a minute. It’s all he can get.


	2. Two Fingers in the Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting chapter two because, hey, it's already done anyways, why wait.
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own, feel free to point them out.
> 
> Good luck.

**Two Fingers in the Glass**

Chapter track: Timber Timbre - Bad Ritual

 

 

Sam makes it back right on time, and stays at the bunker a total of four days.

In that time, they have two half-conversations, but in no way do those two halves add up to a whole.

He ignores two phone calls from Cas and one from Crowley. They sit in his voicemail, when they leave them, untouched; little notification on his screen red and accusing.

He gets two hours of sleep every afternoon, slumped in a chair in the library.

He tries to stay at least moderately buzzed throughout the day, but he’s finding it harder and harder to do. Not for lack of alcohol, or trying, or willpower – but it’s not taking hold. He’s had to replenish his stash over the last week. Twice. The only times he’s ventured outside the bunker have been to three different liquor stores and back, with a stop at the dive-bar on the off-road for a shot or two of courage enhancer on the way. He’s drinking, but it’s not working.

The day Sam decides the narrowly avoided arguments and fiercely enforced quiets are enough, he slaps a folder down on the war room table, and says “I’m headed up to Maine, seems to be some sort of weird Native American thing up there. A ‘Chi-bai-skwe-da’ or whatever, spirit of an improperly buried corpse, takes the form of marsh gas -- methane. It’s been getting into houses through open vents and suffocating anybody asleep at the time. Police think it’s regular old methane poisoning, but it’s hit five houses in the last two months, eight people dead, same MO, same story. Just need to impale the corpse, if I can find it, on an aspen branch blessed by a shaman, then a usual salt and burn, and it’s done.”

He slumps in his seat and nods along, pretends he’s listening, even though his eyes have glazed over and his ears ring, and his fingers are twitching and clenching, digging nails into the wood of his chairs arm.

Sam huffs, because of course he sees right through it, but in what is now usual fashion jumps right over it. “It’ll take me a couple days to get up there, another two or three to get the job done. I might – uh – might stick around another couple days, after, just to – look around.”

‘Look around’ meaning: stay away; away from you. At least Sam manages to look a little sheepish, because the truth he’s trying to hide really isn’t hard to find. He finds himself flicking his thumb against the nail of his ring finger rhythmically, glaring at some point across the room three feet to Sam’s left, and nodding stiffly, so heavy, as Sam clears his throat, gathers his papers, and slinks back where he came from. “So – I’ll be back. Yeah.”

It takes Sam three hours to pack, get his shit, and get gone. He stays seated at the map table the entire time, ignoring the itch of his arm, the bounce of his leg, the grind of his teeth, the emptiness of his belly. Sam stops in the doorway on his way out, arms heavy with duffle bags, throws an obviously mocking “Don’t wait up,” at him, and then stomps his way to the garage and bangs the door closed behind him. The walls are thick, so he doesn’t hear the rumble of an engine pull away, but knows that even if Sam had forgotten something, he still wouldn’t come back inside; he’d keep his pride and pick up a new whatever-it-may-be on the way to God-knows-where, Maine.

He waits, though, just in case. It’s not forthcoming. He checks the time on his phone, two in the afternoon and five o’clock somewhere, and avoids looking at the reminder that he’s purposely ignoring the two, seemingly only, beings that care about his existence, no matter their capacity. Either way, they’d ‘care’ if he died. It’s not as comforting as it should be, even though he’s already two-thirds of a bottle down today, which would normally help, but he has yet to feel even the slightest tingle or faintest buzz. And now that Sam won’t be around to throw accusing words and disappointed stares and ‘Business Only’, it’s high time for him to throw himself into getting well and truly shit-faced.

His bag sits next to him, with what’s left of the first bottle and an unopened second. He grabs them both as he abandons all pretense of ‘research’ and ‘work’, stands and begins what seems like the funeral march to his room, as he uncaps the emptier bottle and attempts to gulp as much of it as he can down in one go, tries not to choke on his own tongue or gag on the over-sweet rotten burn that is bottom shelf whiskey, breathes through his nose. Because the halls of the bunker are winding and long, the bottle is empty before he reaches the rows of bedroom doors, marked like dorms. Sam’s door stands closest to the end, firmly shut, and he’s sure that if there were keys to these doors, it’d be locked and bolted. The urge to smash his empty bottle against the brass numbers decorating its front is strong, but he breaths himself through it, steps to his own room, and shuts his own door firmly behind him.

The pills are still in the drawer. The coffee cup is still sitting next to the typewriter, still unwashed but now coated with the filmy residue of pills and liquor of last week. The bottles he’s emptied since then make up a silent audience on his desk, and the newest joins them, as he roots out the pills, uncaps their tops single-handedly, and spills two of each haphazard onto his desk, doesn’t bother to put the bottles back in the drawer. He wants to get as far away from his head, away from the bunker, away from reality, away from himself – just like Sam, right? – as he can, as quickly as possible, so he doesn’t even bother with the push-twist-crush routine of the coffee cup, and instead plucks up three of the four caplets laying on his desk and throws them into his mouth. He crushes them between his teeth, lets the chalk and taste of vaguely rotten milk and dry flour coat his tongue, the dust collect in the edge of his gums, compact in the crowns of his molars, as he twists the cap off the new bottle of whiskey and turns it up to gulp mouthfuls of it greedily, leaving the threat of gagging on the reminder of pills, dry and sticky and chunky, behind in favor of the threat of gagging on shit liquor, light in his mouth but so, so heavy in his mind – as long as it’s all washed down and away.

He has the foresight to remember that he doesn’t want to wake up on the floor again, the crick still aching in his neck and his back sore, lingering pain, as good an idea it had been at the time – just like all the other ‘good ideas’, right? – and steps toward his bed, sinks heavily into memory foam, adjusts himself and his pillows against the headboard as he toes off his heavy boots. The silence of the room, of the bunker, is in equal parts intrusive and muffling, unsettling his gut, and the next swift gulp from the bottle is enough to finally trigger his gag-reflex, as he heaves into the back of his hand, chokes on the mouthful that his throat refuses to swallow, forces him to breathe through his nose and close his eyes and focus, but nothing comes up and nothing goes down, and the remnants of chalk fizz on his tongue and bubble against the roof of his mouth. The longer nothing happens, the worse it gets, so he pushes through it, forces himself to get it down, to swallow it back and breathe and ignore the sting in his throat, the burn on his tongue, the prick of tears in his eyes.

He waits for the better part of an hour. He alternates between careful, cautious, calculated sips, and large, impatient, selfish gulps that leave him winded, chest heaving, breath hiccupping, until the bottle is empty in his fist. He stares at it, unsure what to do, until he realizes how much time has passed, and he only just feels his toes beginning to curl of their own violation, of his inability to properly bring anything into focus, lens blurred, of his breaths shallow and slow, of the itch behind his eyelids, of the cramp in his shoulders faded, the growing thrum of pain and heat building in his arm, the branded curse growing angry red, freshly burned flesh. He sniffs heavily and pushes the empty bottle away from him, across the bed, angry and insulted, watches as it slowly rolls off the edge of the mattress and clinks to the floor. He realizes that doing even that small task has drained whatever remaining energy he had out of him, and while the regular aches, the constant nags, the lingering complaints of his body have been stifled, the mark is gaining their loss – and quickly, now that he’s focused, and it is impossible to attempt to ignore. The burn and fire that he’s now becoming familiar with but still unprepared for spreads outwards along his veins, to the crease of his elbow and his fingertips, forces his hand into a clenched fist, nails biting like dull teeth into his palm. The ache blockades thought away from his mind, and his ears fill with the high pitch screaming he has come to recognize as longing and find and want and The Blade.

He hisses through his teeth as he rolls to his side, clutches his fist and curls around his inflamed arm, agonized and excruciating. Tries to teach himself how to continue breathing, though his lungs feel as though they’re filled with bricks. Keeps his eyes tightly closed, because he’s not sure what he’ll see if they open. Tears into the skin of his palm and the chapped ridges of his lips.

For the rest of the night, he stays and trembles this way. He doesn’t sleep.

Another two days are just as sleepless. He has a whores bath, avoids looking in the mirror as he scrubs under his armpits, avoids seeing the pink high on his cheeks and rimming his eyes and the red of his bloodshot eyes and the heavy bags beneath them and the grey everywhere else, ignores the scratch of his unshaven jaw and the pain caused by clenched teeth as he scrubs his face, avoids admitting that his hands are still shaking and tries to drown out the squeal in his eardrums when he submerses his head under the boiling tap. He tries to force food into his gut, but that which doesn’t instantly turn to mud in his mouth is outright nauseating by sight alone, and he abandons trying again. He ignores another phone call from Crowley and another voicemail and three text messages from Cas, who it appears is finally becoming more technologically competent, but he still keeps his phone powered and in his pocket at all times. He gives up all pretense of the ‘research’ he’s supposed to be performing on Abaddon and the blade; because Sam isn’t here to keep track of his progress and be disappointed when he can’t find anything useful in the extensive collection of the Men of Letters; because all the answers he actually needs are available and waiting in the hands of one of the beings he’s trying his best to ignore; because there’s a running repeating static that pervades all other thought, whining and begging and pleading The Blade The Blade The Blade Please The Blade Go Find Hell Crowley Abaddon The Blade; because he’s afraid of what will happen if he listens, if he picks up the phone and answers the calls, if he makes the wrong decision – again.

He tries the pills again, four crushed in his teeth and swallowed down with another bottle, his last, of whiskey. Before he can even begin to feel the drowsy haze of non-thought and numbness and spiraling quiet, his arm begins to tremble and cramp and ache and scream agony through his veins, burns into his bones, spreads through his chest and settles into his heart, pools in his lungs, un-tempered by the drugs like it should be. He gasps his way through a wave of it, panics that something is wrong, something is wrong with him, before he fumbles another two pills between his teeth and swallows the chunks of them down through sheer willpower alone. But it takes them a long time to take hold and they only curb the distress, sand the roughness of it down, until he’s left pulling tight, sharp gasps through his teeth, clutching his arm and curled on his side again, and cursing at himself, at Cain, at Crowley, at The Blade, at hell, at heaven, at Cas, at Sam, at the mark, at the pain, at the itch and pressure that signifies tears that stick his lashes together and his own weakness, again and again.

It takes hours, but eventually exhaustion quiets him, silences everything, pulls him in to sleep, though it is fitful and there is no actual rest to be taken from it. He wakes to a lingering, dense, tight ache in every inch of his body, an angry, bright pulse in his arm, a heavy head, dusty vision, dry mouth, tight lungs, three missed calls, two new voicemails, and four text messages, all from Cas. He smacks his lips and scrapes his tongue against his teeth, flexes his fingers and toes, breathes deeply for a little while, wrinkles his nose at the screen of his phone, avoids looking at the texts, listening to the messages, and manages to find his way into the kitchen – trying to decide whether to find a glass of water and wash away the film in his mouth, or drown himself in the sink, as he goes.

In the end, he settles for a glass, decides nobody deserves the satisfaction of seeing him die today – least of all yourself, right? – and sets up camp on the couch in the room they’ve designated the theater, renovated with a TV bought with fraudulent credit cards and a thrift store coffee table.

He avoids moving as much as possible for the next two days, re-watches the Game of Thrones DVDs until he’s memorized Lord Tyrion’s confession speech to Lady Stark’s sister, the psycho lady and her creepy as shit kid in the Eyrie, because that scene is gold and never fails to get him grimacing a smile; until he’s memorized the threats Khal Drogo flings at his insubordinate clansman after he insults the Khaleesi and their ‘spoils of war’, in both Dothraki and English, finds himself humming the theme song the few times he clicks off the TV and attempts to sleep. Sam texts him once, a short, perfunctory “made it” and then it’s back to pure radio silence.

The mark burns every day, makes him keep his fists clenched, makes his fingers and elbows stiff and sore, shoulders tense and hard. Behind the droning, high-pitched whine in his ears, sometimes, he thinks he hears voices. Behind the screeching, there are faint whispers in the dark, fainter whispers when he’s not paying attention – but obviously there’s nobody and he’s _not_ fucking hearing this, because there’s nobody there, and he’s not insane enough to be hearing voices – yeah, right? – he’s just – just a little unstable right now; just going through some shit. More often than not, he ends up with a headache with how hard he tries to ignore everything, his own mind and everything outside it, how hard he grits his teeth to keep from shouting back at the words he can’t even make out or understand, his own voice just as much as the others-that-can’t-be-there.

On day three (he’s pretty sure it’s day three - he hasn’t actually been keeping track of any time, only the occasional check of his phone for the date and useless hope for contact) of his self-imposed couch exile, day five of Sam-imposed complete exile, he’s huddled himself against the arm of the couch, pillow over his head and blanket cocooned around him, with complete knowledge of how childish the action is and yet desperate enough to try it, because his entire body aches with what feels like the most ungodly mix of a week-long flu, fever chills and muscle cramps and exhaustion no sleep can cure included, and the wildest hangover on earth, complete with fuzzy mind and headache compounded by the occasional talking-that-isn’t-actually-there and his attempt to ignore it.

A resounding triple-bang, loud even through the pillow and squeal and mumbling and haze startles him enough to raise his head, stare over the back of the couch to the doorway that leads to the war room that leads to the library that leads to the front hall that houses the staircase that leads to the front door.

A minute later and the bunker is still silent, the bangs that could-have-been knocks not returning, and he blindly digs through his blanket to locate his phone, pulls it from the folds as he turns on the screen to check the time. It’s 10:08 P.M., and he rubs a hand down his face, across his eyes, because it was probably some stupid-ass kids driving around the back roads, interested in the big iron enforced door embedded in what looks like a hill out in the middle of nowhere and stopping to check it out, see if they could get in. He punches his pillow down onto the arm of the couch, intent to lie back down and go back to ignoring everything, when his phone begins vibrating in his hand, stuns him into freezing for the second time, staring at his hand. The third vibration kicks him back in to movement, makes him look at the screen and the name sitting above the choices to ‘ignore’ and ‘slide to answer’ – Cas. He’s three-quarters of the way to pressing his thumb to ‘ignore’ when a simultaneous new text preview appears on the screen, also from Cas and stating only “Dean.”, and another three bangs come from the door several rooms away. And he knows that he’s fucked.

He doesn’t bother to finish pushing the button, just throws his phone back into the mound of blanket and groans his way in to standing. He rubs his hands through his hair, over his eyes, across his mouth as he wanders through the various rooms to get to the door, tries to slap color back into his cheeks and rub crust from his eyelashes as he curses his way up the stairs, gives up when he realizes that he hasn’t changed his clothes in four days and looks like shit and hasn’t bathed properly in more than a week and probably smells and he’s entirely too tired to keep up appearances as he spins the tumbler keeping the door locked, safe and secure.

Cas is just slipping his phone back into his pocket, staring straight forward, back straight and posture perfect, when he finally heaves open the door. It’s an uncomfortable, tense, annoying moment of silence and staring between them, as he leans against the heavy iron and Cas doesn’t move a single muscle. And then Cas’ shoulders slump, his hands come out of his pockets, and he inclines his head towards him gently, a small nod; whether it’s in greeting or if he’s just confirmed that, hey look, he’s not dead, he can’t say.

“Dean.”

He blinks at Cas slowly, an eyebrow crawling upwards, silent and drawn.

“May I come in?”

He lets another moment of silence pass, Cas staring, fingers clenching, before he shrugs a shoulder and steps aside to let him pass – but Cas doesn’t step forward, and he raises his eyebrow again as he peers around the door. Cas looks sheepish, and his eyes have fallen towards the ground, the fingers of his right hand tapping slowly against his coat.

“You renewed the sigils. Would you --?”

Ah, right. Cas is an angel again. An angel that can’t get past all the warding that he’d replaced on every doorway, over every entryway into the bunker. He’s half-tempted to close the door in his face, keep ignoring him and pretending the world doesn’t exist – but Cas is a friend, and he cares, and he’s here now. So he turns away from the door but leaves it open, leaves Cas standing outside in the dark, as he goes to find a marker and remove the warding keeping him out. He can feel Cas watching him walk away, but the open door is a signal that he’ll be back. Quietly, like Cas doesn’t intend for him to hear but he does all the same, the angel says “I’ll wait.”

It takes nearly forty-five minutes to remove a majority of the warding – Cas deserves to have full range of the bunker; he was supposed to live here, with him and Sam, once – and if there’s any that he missed, he’ll get them later. He intentionally leaves the warding over his own bedroom door, though, just because. For whatever reason. He also takes the time to stop in the bathroom and stick his head under the cold tap, wash his face, brush his teeth, because maybe he does care a little bit about appearances. When he makes it back up the stairs to the door to remove the final bit of warding above the entry, Cas is still standing there, staring inside, his hands in his pockets. He stretches over his head to leave a heavy-handed red slash through the black sigil, and it’s done. He steps back behind the door, gesturing Cas inside, and this time the angel doesn’t hesitate, makes his way down the stairs as he closes the door and spins the tumbler to lock it again. Cas waits at the bottom of the stairs for him to limp his way down, follows behind him as he leads them to a table in the front hall, stands at casual attention across from him as he slumps down into a wooden chair and swings his legs up onto the table. Cas’ hands are still in his pockets, and while he looks awkward, like his fingers should be fidgeting and hands wringing, he still has his chin up, his back straight, his eyes trained on him.

So he waits for Cas to talk – he must have a reason for being here that can’t entirely lie in the unanswered phone calls and text messages, the ignored voice mails and radio silence.

And of course, Cas is sometimes obvious and literal and completely predictable.

“Dean. We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update schedule is non-existent, unless I get my ass kicked.
> 
> Feel free to yell at me on tumblr: whycantidoanythingright


	3. Three Sheets to the Wind

**Three Sheets to the Wind**

Chapter track: [Ghosst(s) - Lorn](http://youtu.be/TzzrzGyKo6g)

 

 

“I’ve spoken to Sam.”

Way to open the conversation on a neutral subject, Cas, don’t build up to it at all. This wasn’t going to be just a friendly visit, wasn’t going to be a buddy-buddy time, but he’d been hoping for a little bit of easing into whatever this is; hoping that the ache and tire in his bones would be able to lift for a little while, eased by conversation that wasn’t double-worded and sharp, and not simply become suddenly, steadily heavier. He rubs a hand over his mouth silently, and gestures for Cas to go on. It takes a moment, and Cas finally pulls his hands out of his pockets to brace himself against the back of the chair he’s standing behind, but he still looks serious, looks cautious, looks unsure.

“Sam is – very angry, Dean.” No shit, thanks. “He’s told me that the both of you are still at odds with each other. He’s enlightened me on how he sees the situation between you, but he has – he refuses to discuss _you._ ”

Cas is giving him a very pointed look, one that makes him want to both stand at attention, hold his chin up and his back straight, be willing to do whatever is asked of him, and fight it all tooth-and-nail, punch stones into dust. He settles for pulling his feet off the table top, sitting upright in his chair, and popping his knuckles. Cas eyes the room around them, slow and calm and nervous, and clears his throat, an action and sound that seems so unnatural coming from him, things and habits he didn’t even know how to do until a handful of months ago, until he was human and out on his own. It instantly grates against his nerves, joins the itch of unsettle that thrums through him now, makes him dig his fingertips into the arm of the chair and lick his lips heavily.

“I am worried, Dean. There are groups of angels on earth now, lost, searching for purpose and leadership – and they seem to believe that I’m their best option at providing that, now. Obviously, I am – hesitant to accept this.”

The attempt at humor, as Cas’ lip twitches in an aborted, shaky smile at the obvious jab at himself and his previous bouts of ‘leadership’ and ‘Godliness’, stings and burns through his insides, but does nothing but make his brow raise. Cas clears his throat again, sobers up, readjusts his grip on the back of the chair, adds a finer grate to buzzing nerves.

“I need your guidance in this, Dean – yours and Sam’s, if I’m going to accept the responsibility. But with you and Sam as you are, I don’t believe either of you are in any positions to be offering advice. And it needs to be fixed.”

Cas is leveling that look at him again, straight into him, but the compass that dictates his action is now pointing firmly towards ‘fight’ more than it is ‘obey’. He can feel everything in him collapsing within his skin, piles of rubble that resemble muscle, and the ruin takes over his face, pulls his mouth down, his brow low, his lips tight, and he can’t stand to look at the angel passing judgment on him now, so chooses some unfocused point past him into the dark of the war room.

“Dean, you need to understand that, despite all of our – our setbacks and history, you and Sam have been one of my biggest priorities. I’ve tried my best to ensure that the both of you are at the very least safe, I’ve helped you when you needed, I’ve come when you’ve called, I’ve been what you needed me to be.” He can see Cas glaring at him from the periphery of his unsteady vision, and it flares along his arms, burns up through his fingertips, boils in his palms. “Now, I need your help – Heaven is closed, angels are loose, going rogue, and every attempt I’ve made to contact you has been, as far as I’m concerned, ignored. I’ve had to go through Sam in order to simply make sure that you’re _alive_ , much less learn of the current situation between you two. I need this _fixed_ , Dean; I need your _help._ I’m worried about yo--”

He’s heard enough, now. He smacks his hands down on the arms of his chair before pushing himself to standing, turns towards the hall that’ll take him to his room, ignores the way Cas flinches back, clamps his mouth shut, drops his hands, lifts his chin, blinks at him wide and quick and unsure. Because Cas doesn’t really care, Cas isn’t really worried, especially not about _him_ and his general welfare – just a means to an end, right? – Cas just needs him to be useful – and he can’t be that; not now, not ever.

“Thanks for the sales pitch, Cas. Good to see you.” He starts towards his room, ignores Cas calling his name, Cas telling what he already knows - that this situation is broken, that it needs fixed, that it’s on him to get his act together and save a bunch of people, a bunch of angels, all of them with shitty holier-than-thou attitudes, and none of them he knows – because it’s out of his hands. As far as he’s concerned, he tried his best, did what he could, made sure at least Sam was saved. He’d fucked that up, obviously, but if Cas wants help saving anyone else, it can’t be him that helps.

He’s surprised when he blinks and suddenly Cas is standing in front of him, shoulders square and jaw set and eyes hard, blocking the doorway to the hall. “Even if you choose to ignore me, Dean, I can’t ignore you. I hear your curses as clearly as I can hear your prayers.”

He restrains himself from punching Cas in the nose, just barely, by clenching his fists and ignoring the tremors that shake their way up to his shoulders, but he can’t help the way his lip snarls and twists at his face, doesn’t try to help the way he shoves himself into Cas’ shoulder to get past him and continue down the hall to his door, doesn’t expect the way his voice growls and barks when it escapes him.

“Good.”

He makes it to his room, closes his door firmly behind him, and spends the next day locked inside, curled around his arm in bed, face stuffed into a pillow, gritting his teeth and trying to stifle all the noise that doesn’t actually exist.

\-------

Alone, his anger leaves him slowly, melts and sloshes around inside him like ice in lukewarm whiskey, turns him chill and feeling wet, heavy, oily slimy ooze covering every inch of him – except for the brand that’s burned everything around it, every feeling but pain and danger and tired away. He’s taken to digging his thumb into the mark, running his palm over it, hoping that the pressure will either drown out the sting radiating from it, or it’ll burn off the mud covering the rest of him.

He tries not to think about what Cas said – more unresolved angel business, more heavenly war at stake, more fucking over of everyone else. But it’s hard to ignore, when he’s already so involved, when he’s one of the primary catalysts that started the whole shebang. It’s hard not to hate himself a little more every thought that passes by, every memory that sneaks in and stretches out to create the road to Hell, the Devil, the not-apocalypse, the now-apocalypse. It’s even harder every time he hears Cas moving inside the bunker; the heavy echo of a book falling, a chair scraping, occasionally, sporadically, footsteps walking down the hall, stopping in front of his door – once accompanied by the sounds of dinnerware being set on the linoleum – hesitating, shuffling, moving away without words.

He’d expected Cas to leave, go try to deal with the angels and heaven without him, find someone else more suited and more stable and more capable, realize that staying was a lost cause and he was a done deal, but instead Cas stays. He’s glad he left the warding above his doorway. But the shame settles somewhere along the way into his chest, crawls up his lungs and into his throat, drags his belly down into his toes.

He’s got a lot of messed up, fucked up guilt, and he _knows_ that he needs to listen to Cas, try and fix this and do what he can. Knows he started trying when he agreed to working with Crowley and meeting Cain and accepting the mark; there’s no way he can take it all back and just drop out of the game, even though he carries a wish that he could – for good, right? – every where with him.

So finally, shamefully, slowly, he picks himself up off the bed, steps outside his room, ignores the tray outside his door with an hours old glass of water and PB and J, takes a piss and a proper shower for the first time in a week. Makes himself presentable with a change of clothes that all hang too loose and awkward around him; scrubs his teeth again, gargles mouthwash and decides to swallow instead of spit because any alcohol is good alcohol – desperate, ain’tcha? -- attempts a half-hearted shave that only seems to tame the scruff on his face more than remove it; avoids looking himself in the eye or pulling an angsty-teenager move and punching the mirror, before shaking himself out like a dog after rain and walking out the door and down the hall to the library, where he can hear Cas clearing his throat and turning pages and squeaking his shoes against the floor tiles.

By the time he makes it to the doorway, Cas is already looking for him, head turned towards the hall, standing up out of his chair at attention, chin high and arms stiff at his sides, and it makes him nervous – too much scrutiny and Cas’ eyes are too narrow and he doesn’t deserve that level of observation. An itch starts crawling up his spine, tingling and uncomfortable, travels down his arm, his mark flaring like a spider bite, all uneasy and painful. He tries to ignore it, shield it away, by crossing his arms over his chest and shouldering up against the jam of the doorway, fixing his eyes firmly on the collar of Cas’ new-and-improved trench coat.

But then the silence stretches on, and Cas keeps staring, and his entire arm starts feeling like it’s been rubbed down with stinging nettles and poison ivy and a ball of steel wool, and it needs to stop – now. “I’m listening, Cas.”

It’s like Cas was waiting for permission, because suddenly he deflates, his shoulders slump, his eyes and jaw soften, and he smiles slowly, kind and genuine, awkward as the move is on his face. “Thank you, Dean.”

But then Cas is hesitating, looking down towards the book he left open on the table, moving to finger at the pages absently, more of the fidgeting from earlier. “I would like to discuss all that with you, yes, but- first—“ Cas takes a breath, folds the book closed, and turns to face him again, eyes serious once more but still soft and open and calm. “How are you, Dean?”

He rolls his tongue against his teeth, trying to scrape against the desperate need for a drink - any drink - edging at the back of his mind, because he needs to have this conversation; because he needs to face facts and face Cas and face the problem; because there isn’t any liquor left in the bunker anyway. But there’s venom eating away at him, and he can’t bite it back. “That’s a loaded question, Cas. When did you take up psycho-analyzing?”

Cas purses his lips, taps his fingers slowly against the cover of the book his hand is still pressed against, but refuses to respond, to rise to the jab and snark, waiting calm and stoic.

However, the silence eventually makes him grit his teeth, antsy, scratch at the meat of his forearm and look past Cas, off into a corner, somewhere to the left. “I’m fine, alright? I’m great.”

Cas waits another moment before humming, quietly, unconvinced – and though he’s not exactly throwing accusations around with one little sound, it sure feels like being thrown up on the stand, judge, jury and executioner all aiming for his head. So, while Cas looks back down at the book, taps slow fingers against it again, he adjusts his lean against the door jam, pulls his shoulders up around his ears, carefully protecting his neck without trying to be obvious.

But Cas doesn’t look back up, only lowers himself back into his chair, eyes still on the book, whatever it is, on the table. “As I said earlier, I’ve spoken to Sam.”

He thunks his head back against the heaving wood of the door frame, maybe a little harder than he should, really, but it’s nothing compared to the headache he already has, and rolls his eyes towards the ceiling tiles, with all their little glazed devils traps and symbols and sigils. “Oh yeah? And how’d that go?”

“He’s … mentioned some things. About you, Dean, and about what’s happened between you both, recently.”

He sighs and knits his brow, thuds his head against wood again, just to see if it’d change anything this time around. “Okay. You’re gonna have to explain why you’re tryin’ to talk to me about all of it, then, if you’ve already ‘spoken to Sam’.”

Cas turns to face him again, and it feels like he’s being pinned to the wall with the weight of it – figuratively of course, even though Cas has, and probably still can, literally do that, but maybe a third blow to the head would do the trick. Cas’ face is calm, and though there’s no warmth, there’s no cold there either. Just calm and quiet and still. It makes him hitch his shoulders up further around his ears, curl his toes in his socks, lick his lips, refuse to meet Cas’ eyes at all.

“Because the things he’s told me, Dean, worry me just as much as the dealings of Heaven do. Because the two of you apart has proven dangerous and often _deadly_ , Dean, to you and those around you. Because I care about your wellbeing and know that being separate from Sam has disastrous consequences on _you.”_ Somehow, Cas manages to speak with an entirely straight face, the intonation in his voice the only give away to just how serious he takes the matter, his gaze heavy and focused and stern. It’s offsetting, like a slowly sinking ship beneath his feet, quietly tilting beneath the waves – no angry churning, no screaming, no urgency, just quiet, unnoticeable, barren disaster and loss.

So he throws his hands up and gets angry where Cas stays calm, welcomes the faint snarling that builds at the base of his skull and tingles up his limbs. “Then what’d’ya want me to do about it? Huh? Sam’s the one that put the blinders on, and I figure I should just give’m what he wants. Fuck me, right?”

Cas refuses to rise, though – refuses to meet the gnawing irritation that bubbles in his own throat and lies on his tongue. Instead, Cas breathes steady. Long, unhurried, even and paced – battle calm, he realizes.

“Because, and we both know this, that’s not the only problem, Dean. If anything, it’s…” Cas pauses, purses his lips, reaffirms that battle calm that’s now so clear in his demeanor. “It’s a symptom – you and Sam separating. Stemming from something else.”

“A symptom?” He can’t help but scoff, throw his head around in mocking disbelief, incredulity, nonexistent humor.

“Yes, Dean, a _symptom,_ ” Cas presses, his nose wrinkling in the way it does when he’s got all the fury of heaven behind him. “An untreated, overlooked corroboration of something else. This- “ He stops to gesture at him, all of him, flippant but stern, and he can feel the prods and pokes against his insides as if Cas’ fingers weren’t half way across the room. “This is the conglomerate. The unfinished result of an unidentified problem, and if it continues to be overlooked, it will only get _worse._ ”

Now the disbelief and incredulity are real, but the humor is still missing, as he blinks at Cas. The angry roiling is moving, burrowing through his veins and up into the space behind his eyes. If Cas wants a battle, then that’s what he’ll have.

“Then tell me, _Cas_ , what you think the underlying _problem_ is. _Tell me_ what you think I should _do. What’s your advice,_ Cas?”

Cas doesn’t rise, again, still steadfast – but he doesn’t submit, either. He only sighs, and gestures widely to the chair across the table from his own.

All of it, every gesture, every move, makes him want to jump, leap, pounce, sets every tooth and hair on edge. The bubbling in his chest and gut, knocking in his skull, doesn’t settle. But like Cas, it doesn’t submit either. He stares at Cas, blunt fingertips digging into the demin covering this thighs, twitching, unsteady, though his jaw is firm and his glare, he knows, is steadfast and constant. And then Cas breathes, cocks his head to the side, lays his hand flat on the tabletop, murmurs, “Please.”

Like an unwilling dog on a leash, something around his throat tightens and tugs, drags him away from his spot in the doorway and to that chair. He stops beside it, feet heavy, a portion of his thoughts demanding he throw his head and thrash, kick, bite and snarl and writhe, while another portion coaxes him, brushes tiny fingers down his spine, pushes small hands against his shoulders until he’s sitting, staring at Cas, chewing on his tongue.

Cas smiles at him, pleased, lips still pursed and tight but the rest of him looks softer, more rounded, sharp edges still deadly but dulled. It settles something, makes him pull air into parts of his lungs that feel like they haven’t been exposed in years. Clears out the glass underneath his feet.

Together, they stare at each other, prod at the boundaries that stand invisible between them, carefully, silently.

Eventually, they come to an understanding. He doesn’t know what that understanding is, but it’s stable and mutual and confining. It allows them to tear their eyes away from each other, Cas’ gaze back on the book resting beside his hand, and his own finding a fingerprint smudge on the base of the small lamp lighting only a portion of their shared space.

Eventually, Cas speaks up, words carefully chosen but confident, trying to belay and navigate unfamiliar ground.

“All I ask of you, Dean, is your honesty.”

And now he realizes, another stunning moment, Cas isn’t looking for battle – merely prepared for it. Like the soldier he’s supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am bad at this game.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize.
> 
> Update schedule is non-existent, unless I get kicked in the ass.
> 
> Feel free to yell at me on tumblr: whycantidoanythingright


End file.
